


The void out

by Vuetyris



Series: Operative Warren - Sprout [7]
Category: Warframe
Genre: Avoidant Personality Disorder, Body Horror, Gen, Life support coma, Mental Instability, Mentioned black market trade, Near Death Experiences, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, Transference nervous override, Void Combustion, body and organ trade, nervous breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-07-30 15:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20099317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vuetyris/pseuds/Vuetyris
Summary: The void.Hot, building, lashes of energy that carries over the haul of the Zariman so clearly in Warren's mind before the panic gripped his father, the terror aboard the ship that left him and others terrorized and ever changed. His void echo wonders, as he's dug into the depths of despair; 'what would happen, if you were to wade inside?'As much as he tries to dissuade it... suppress it... it keeps coming back.[Unintentionally moved up due to chapterizing finished work]





	1. Distress restrained

**Author's Note:**

> 08/2019 Update: Moved portions into chunks for ease of reading purposes, which subsequently moved it up as a more recent work - won't go back and change previous writings to be resolved into chapters.

Click; click; click sweeps gently through the speakers lining the residential chamber as a gloved hand silently gestures through the air, through the vast catalog of documents deep within the conjoined cephalon systems. Added by Suuir to keep track of the browsing records, a quiet 1572 clicks ever so upwards; clicks to 1573, another soft click as it moves up into 1574. It goes ignored by the teenager as his eyes browse through the short snippet of mission dockets, goes over the lengthy research papers either Corpus or misc., items ‘retrieved’ by the late Knev… a thought forgone as Warren mindlessly wades.

Past the glisten of arboriforms, the stunning chime of the void gates, the void in general drives his numbing focus with one hand – taking pause over the imagery of the enigmatic presentation the stunt of white energy brings. His other hand holds against his long now healed arm, over a wound that lies only in a memory.

His fingers squeeze; a memory that still stings.

The good part of his face screws into a firm frown.

And yet he continues to scour through for something… for what specifically his thoughts suppress. Opposed to the usage of the spira blades that sit across from him on the ottoman surface, stained with the juice of a maprico fruit. Eyes still adverted, his thoughts continue to wander beneath his placid expression, barely a finch as they begin to turn dark as the visage of the void plays through a video on the hologram screen. A rare void storm enveloping a ship, the shearing of bright white energy scratching over the ship’s hull as piece by piece it begins to vanish.

Gone.

Made into nothing.

Fingers pry against his shoulder, scratching at his bare void-scarred skin.

‘Suuir has direct connection to dad’s ship… but Kiln’s…’

He drops the thought, hand pulling up through his hair with a sigh.

But it continues despite his attempts to defuse it, hand waving the replay out of his sightline for a moment, leaning down against his knees as his corrupted arm screws through his hair; he stares down at it. Skin pigment darkened, the slight tracing outline of dark tones around his joints – a direct opposite of his other hand. Unnatural, corrupted.

He can feel himself frown – only half of his face. The other still in a snarl; an unnatural snarl, brought on by those Orokin bastards and – 

Warren forces himself to exhale, to press his back against the cushioned bench as his arms wrap around his torso as he presses his eyes shut. And, as he forces the irritation, the anger, the degrading thoughts of himself… the void still pervades in the hind of his thoughts. Creeping, seeping; he can almost feel the traces of energy wrapping around his throat, against the corruption brought on by his initial exposure to the void – the screams. The deranging laughter conjoined with inhuman screeches – hands clasp over his ears.

Gone. He just wants it all gone.

Fustration crawls through his throat as he fights the welting pain in his clenched sight, the ever so slight pull of the lacking muscles that once made his mouth that reminds him of the biting smacks, the hidden pain every time he disagreed. Torn from his reaction to fight back, shoulders slumped as he just gave into the orders to keep going with the mission – no choice to disagree.

Hand curling into his hair, head resting upon the palm, whatever he manages to see past his curls is the ever present white… a hand raises, his corrupted left limb, and it pans back into the archives.

Ship mission archives.

Kiln’s liset mission archives – at least what he assumes, as the ship-codes are the same from what he read under the right tailfin.

He’ll need to confirm….

And his eyes direct to a series of coordinates – the marker tag its approach as ‘Void’. A void jump from one end of the system to another, a dive into the void for a Void tower… it blurs as he wipes away his tears.

It’s been to the void… Suuir doesn’t have control of it…

‘Why are you hesitating?’ that same voice hisses as he forces the view closed, straining to dismiss it from his thoughts. ‘It’d be want you want, right? For all of this to stop.’ That voice that mimics his own… gargled with vile venom as the brush of hair traces over his exposed skin.

Callous, he swats the hair from his shoulder.

Nothings there.

Ever so quickly he dismisses the mindless indulgence of the ever-vast files, prying another view in its place; something to calm his nerves, he pieces out as his face presses into his palms. Eyes pressing shut, head tilts forward so that his fingers dig through his hair, he listens to the mimicry of the ocean, of the rustle of trees that pervades… he sighs. Hands pulling through his hair he reclines against the bench, eyes laid half-lid as he watches the crashing of digital waves, the flutter in the false presence of the oceanic scenery beneath the glean of a well setting sun. Leaves fluttering in the unseen breeze, of the sensation that faintly echoes through his memory as he leans forward once more, elbows on his knees, hands wringing.

Thinking. Hands pressing… he sighs.

Good enough.

Just good enough as he presses his thoughts to the smallest movements made on the opposing screen. Of how the waves churn around the smooth stones lining against the beach front, of how the crest of a ridge had come to form. Anything to rid him of the self-destructive tendencies.

Warren reaches over his lap, looking to where the small buffet lays cold.

Within a small wicker basket two maprico remain, to which he ignores for what is left of his previous three döner kebab sits half eaten, the flatbread unrolled over the strips of kubrow roast that sit on a smooth rectangular platter. Picking up another strip of the fried meat he is unsurprised to find it cool – room temperature – as he chews the hardened piece.

He's lost track of the hours – unsurprising given the time he’s divulged into the endless catalogs within the cephalon’s easy-to-access repositories. Warren rips off another piece – his gnashing teeth makes the force as his void imbued fist yanks the stiff meat free. His sight always lingers on the opposing view, to where he can keep his focus even as the ache of guilt grips his throat, as the beading edges of tears claw at the ducts of reddened eyes.

Another piece pulls free – swallowing it without a second thought before he coughs.

Wrong pipe, his mind wheezes; ‘you can’t do anything right,’ the voice chews at his mind.

Falling into a coughing fit, he hits his chest with a final smack that makes him flinch – hand resting upon the welt of a fist-shaped bruise. Too hard… he coughs, dislodging the meat before he swallows. ‘Just stop eating, its cold, just throw it away,’ the thoughts bite in the back of his mind, clawing as he finishes the cold strip as he leans back to his knees.

Wishing it would just stop.

‘What to just stop, the crying? Just stop crying, it’s useless you know,’ bites as his hands wring. Feeling as the orbiter’s gravitation shifts to the weight of a boarding liset. ‘Don’t let him see you like this,’ the thoughts claw through his brain, ‘you’re weak; just stop crying, stop fucking crying.’

Teeth gritting, palming gloves into his eyes, Warren’s breathing shudders.

If only it was that easy… he hiccups.

When the doors beyond the platform at his back begins to whisper open Warren pulls his jacket up over his head from where it had laid at his back – pulling the arms over his head, hiding his face as he returns to the forward lean. Sight kept forward, he doesn’t acknowledge the steps moving from behind him to his right, able to discern through the somatic signal connection. Able to pervade an external view for a moment and read the flicker of slight wounding that lies over the loki’s shoulder still.

Two weeks… it has taken two weeks to return to a minimal scar.

Warren’s hands wring. Way too long for a normal healing period for something like that… he’s kept quiet track of the injuries his father sustained, the bullet wounds that healed in a matter of minutes and gashes that healed in the sum matter of hours. Documents of experimentation written in Corpus he delved into, guided by curiosity and concern… the visions of Knev’s warframes sink in the back of his mind as he read the reports by the person called Alad V, by the minor reports by anonymous corpus dissectors in grotesque numbness – all those he’s abandoned in the war stain his memories, hands pulling through his hair in a huff.

Each faint resounds of blood curdling cries… as a practitioner vivisects another live subject. A log already slated to be heard a dozen times on the long decrepit cephalon they scavenged from. Knev… they must’ve heard it, right? Did they do anything about it, anything about the trade of bodies for profit… was he even better, sitting on the sidelines unable to take even the slightest bit of stress before crumbling down. He wants to help – wants to stop the pain – but he can’t even talk without tears staining his voice, without his jaw trembling, stumbling over his words in the stint of panic that grips his throat. The bodies left in his wake, unable to do anything, unable to change any damn thing – his breathing chokes, flinching at the briefest touch on his shoulder.

It retracts. “Sorry,” whispers from T’viska, sitting himself a full cushion length away from where Warren still hoods himself away from the warframe’s sightline. Across his right shoulder a band of deep wine muscles still lie exposed, tinted by the breath of his innate energy. It stands out stark to his ivory and tan pelt, odd compared to the other scars that lie old and blackened by age; thousand-year-old scars made by mid-transference injuries and pitted by endured agony… the loki sighs, sight turning to the opposing wall where the ocean still plays.

The air hangs heavy as claws pull at elbows, never turning to the teenager sat huddled beneath his jacket.

Between there’s a trace of the sympathetic transference that hangs taut, in how it leads T’viska to the direct emotional core that fumes within the silence. How the seemingly odd grasps against forearms are marked by a spike in racing thoughts, in where the beads of tears transfer cheek to cheek; a profound connection that leaves the paternal warframe at a loss. Helpless. Uncertain…

Unable to form words to say.

So, he just stares at the vision of the fictional earth beach across on the hologram screen, letting out a heavy sigh as a hand scratches the back of his neck, over the uneven exhale of throat vents. His mouth twists into a frown, leaning back forward, pausing, leaning back, arms across his chest, he ponders. Ponders as the ache of tears continue to welt unseen and unheard.

Silence making it worse.

T’viska leans forward on his knees, claws grasping around his palms. “So, how was the kubrow?” he tries to formulate a line of thought – to keep talking? “Smelled rather good on the way home. I should’ve gotten double the amount to try some myself,” he tries to smile. “Figured you’d like some actual meat, instead of the absolutely horrid dehydrated crisp we’ve been stuck with for who knows how long. Next time we swing around a hub, I’ll see what the locals got, see what kinda culinary tricks they might’ve cooped up around Venus.” He chuckles, or tries, “I heard there’s some type of mushrooms that are common there, golden laced ones, wonder what kinda broths those can make.”

Warren remains silent, huddling himself beneath the jacket.

The loki’s mouth remains in a frown; foods not the way to go, it seems. Looking back to the hologram opposite to them, the coastal view marked with a stony outcrop and lined with the tuff of sand-turned grass. A brief look at the serenity so far out of reach… a fabrication that is only as solemn comfort as it is to ignore the glints of light that rebounds from the lighting above them, the reflections off the empty glass casings that line the walls beside the steps leading down. As ignoring the stacks of crates that sit still at the edges of the room; it’s merely a window into nothing, just the same a view to the ocean as it is to the endless sight of space. 

Or the wall that lies beneath it.

For a moment T’viska contends with the idea that space would be better… if they weren’t currently drifting through a wreckage field of grineer galleons, some of which he had taken part in the sabotage of.

His mouth flinches.

“It’s a nice view, isn’t it,” he sighs, hands prying against themselves as he hails Suuir through his optical display, ‘can you hold onto any processing assignments?’

‘For now,’ the cephalon’s words dash across his vision. A false display of aggression; T’viska knows how quickly they can be picked up by more readier mercenaries. Ones that aren’t as well suited… biding for scraps. 

To his left the teenager remains quiet, hands curling against his stomach, jacket arms hanging down over his face and crouched knees… boots kicked up onto the ottoman. Tears dripping quietly to the floor. T’viska looks over to him for a moment, the slits in his face fanning in thought as he turns back to the display across from them. “Miss the ocean… don’t you kid,” his claws wring as he shuffles himself forward as his sight remains adverted. “It’s… been a while since I’ve taken you there, hasn’t it,” his voice remains low, resigned in the realization. “It’s been… months, hasn’t it,” he can’t recall, and Suuir corrects him – 378035 earth hours. Correctly months… about nine of them.

Silence stales the air. The loki’s features scrunched in self-concern, has it really been that long?

Suuir remains unamused.

“I really… should take you back there. There’s not many places as untouched as the earth, aside from where the Grineer have settled their bases, that is.” T’viska exhales, “Mars isn’t as much better, honestly, but some settlements from the old war still remain intact.” A pause; he’s only taken him to a wreckage turned shooting range. “I really… haven’t taken you around Mars, have I.”

There’s a pause before he continues, “some of the settlements have managed to keep the grineer at bay there… I think Suuir might have something in the database.” He hopes; callously browsing through the cephalon’s memory banks for references that aren’t marred by a mission marker, for something that isn’t an article piece or the notation of another grineer conquest. As he combs through the cephalon’s archives in silence, he gently requests Suuir to bolster the soundscape, to dilute the anxiety drenched space that fills between father and son.

Eventually the lighting in the room falls dim into dusty bronze as in place of the ocean rises a drowsy vista, a visual simulation drawn from thousands to bring to life the untouched rocky rims outlined by the blue-sky hue. Where the banding of canyon walls are lined with the ribs of Orokin structures, of white and wine that juts and reaches over the overgrowth that sits far beneath; derelicts that lie formerly crumpled stand overhead of the adobe structures that surround the support beams, spotted beneath the Martian trees where the remaining platforms are lined with tether supports.

Far above a hexagonal shield sits faint in the low light – a defense grid lined to the remaining towers.

“This is… Agade? I think,” T’viska pauses, referring to his inner cognitive circuitry, “longest lasting settlement on Mars as far as anyone knows. The shielding is one of the only things that has kept the Grineer out, apart from the few warframes I’ve heard of sheltering there.” He sighs, sitting back against the cushion, bringing information up on his internal display. “Not much is left when it comes to vegetation… the grineer have been scavenging the remaining resources dry, knocking out whichever community that gets in their path or if they just want to take whatever is on ‘their land’.” His features draw a sneer. “There’s not much left when they take what they want… I’ve seen it personally.”

The warframe draws silent – of roving caravans burned of resources, of entire communities wiped from the surface save for the few scant survivors that hunkered down and waited for the slaughter to pass. All in all, helpless. Only able to witness from the sidelines and get whomever he could to safety – just like in the war.

His mouth draws firm. Nothing’s really changed since then.

“I heard, after the Orokin slaughter, that most of them just spread out just like with those on Earth, Venus, Europa, Titan, and Pluto… scattered throughout the system, they all bided for scraps then too. The sentients didn’t leave a lot left… and people fought, fought over the scant supplies… but people make it through it, from what I know, most of the independent stations are founded from those once struggling communities. One able to husband small animals for food, others with high-tech botany left behind… but there was always the thought of would the sentients come back; would anything be left then? Salvage collecting in pockets adrift, another wreckage tossed into the path of Saturn or Jupiter or Sol…” His head drops back, the slits in his face drawn tight with a frown.

Golden claws grip at the back of his neck.

“And when the rebuilding isn’t the problem it’s the Corpus, it’s the Grineer… about the only thing keeping these people out of being in a constant war-torn state is these superpowers…” His hand drops to his side, “but at least something survived, from back then I guess,” and sighs.

As his sight is turned towards the ceiling he doesn’t notice the teenager turning to look at him for a moment, eyes puffed and red. Jacket still lied over his head, Warren looks back to the screen across from him – a faint memory lapses between the brain fog.

“Those that aren’t bound to provide for the Corpus, at least they have warframes to defend themselves… but I’ve been seeing less and less of them that aren’t Lotus affiliated…” T’viska’s voice drifts, straining to pry through his memory for the last time he had a conversation with one that wasn’t bound by some Lotus loyalty.

A creak breaks the teenager’s voice as he tries to speak, mouth turned into a grimace as he curls himself back into a half-formed ball. Mind clouded with self-destructive thoughts, gently pushing the spira blade away with the heel of his boot. It clamoring to the floor doesn’t stir the loki, spaced out in his own memory recall.

Warren’s not sure if he can even trust his own memories; or if the memories are even his own. Yet still.. “I think… I’ve seen this place,” he barely speaks above a whisper, fighting to keep his anxiety down.

He doesn’t want T’viska to worry.

And for a moment uncertainty grips his throat, was he begin ignored?

“It’s part of Valles… one of the northern stretches,” T’viska eventually responds, “around the Lunae Palus region, or what’s left of it.” He sighs, “used to connect to the Mons spaceport, before the sentients tore the area up.”

Another misremembered memory, Warren frowns.

“Wasn’t that the area we worked to evacuate,” the loki whispers, unable to recall himself. “It’s all just blurred together, I guess… The Orokin and the sentients bloody war.”

There’s a pause.

“The Orokin got what was coming to them,” Warren huffs as he leans back into the seat backing, wrapping himself to continue keeping his face obscured.

T’viska glances over.

“They’re not that different… except for they actually rebelled,” exhales a dry laugh; Warframe, ‘Tenno’, ‘Sentient’… all just Orokin playthings.

Looking back to the display T’viska leans back onto his knees, hands folding into one another. “I suppose,” he partials, “we weren’t given much of a choice…”

There’s a hiccup in the silence, a gloved fist pressing against sight as the surrounding silence pervades the pressure pulling through the teenager’s chest. ‘Stop crying,’ he internally wails, sick of it, sick of all of it.

There wasn’t any choice…

Another hiccup rolls through Warren, fiercely pulling the jacket around his head and shoulders to further isolate himself; to distance himself from the arm that pulls him into a gentle hug, the claws that guide his head to rest against shoulder as the loki sighs. “It’s alright, just let it all out.” His hand pats over the backing of the jacket that lies over the tenno’s head, simply listening as the teenager sobs beneath the wrapped jacket, sight hidden away from cold metal reinforcements that make the room.

With the only exclusion of isolation being the opposing hologram…

T’viska frowns. ‘Suuir, what’s the status on a low-tier stake-out assignment?’ He needs to get Warren out of here, even just for a little while…

‘The one marked on Venus is still available.’

‘Confirm it,’ the loki’s breathing sighs, optical sensors glancing over towards where sobs hiccup at his shoulder. ‘How long until arrival?’

‘Want me to set a holding pattern? We’ll be over it in two minutes.’

‘Yeah, hold it. He needs time to breathe,’ T’viska turns back to where Warren has slowly started to peel himself away, his claws falling to the teenager’s back in reassuring pats. “Feeling alright, kid?” He keeps his voice low, allowing Warren the space to sit back and recuperate from the gut-wrenching sobs as the jacket remains pulled over his face and adverted to the distant digital vista.

“It’s… Agade. Right?” Warren hiccups, gloved palm brushing against his nose before wiping it further on his undershirt – it’s already been stained with old tears and snot. In well need of a change; Warren can’t remember the last time he had showered.

“Yeah,” T’viska sighs, reaching a hand up to alter the display’s positioning over the shielded settlement projection. “Lunae Palus stretch of Valles Marineris,” he pulls back into a secondary display, to form a picture-in-picture that houses a quarter of Mars and centers on the remains of the tharsis montes. “Most of the Valles has been claimed by the grineer, but in the smaller outreaches people have kept their foothold, kept maintenance of the tech that projects the shielding passed down through the generations.”

Peering out from beneath the hooding jacket, Warren glances towards the warframe before looking back. He swallows, the ache of tears still threatening, “I see…” Still dangerous; he’d be too much of a burden to come along, his self-deprecation wails. Too much, a dead weight, unable to manage himself sat alone – whatever could he do on his own?

Silence sits, T’viska glances over and meets the teenager’s tear-stained sight; puffed red, traces of tears lying over sweat-made grime fissure down his face beneath the jacket. “Do you want to go there? To see what it’s like, see if it stirs any memories?”

Warren sits quietly, eyes looking down and questioning towards the floor, shrouding himself again beneath the hood. Uncertainty; his mouth presses shut. Discomfort; what if it’s all fake, something that remains from the one of hundreds dead at his own hand? Fear grips – chest hurting, fingers balling into his stomach once more as he leans back into a small ball with a shuddering exhale. What if this, what if that – he doesn’t want to think about it, somatic sight pressing shut. “Yes,” eventually leaves him.

Concern still twists the loki’s mouth; worried about the dread that seeps through the sympathetic somatic link. Unable to ponder what may happen if he leaves the teenager alone with his own thoughts. “Would you, be open to join me on a mission until then…? I can ask Kiln if he’d be fine with running a few while we’re out, to keep our income up.” There’s a twitch in his lip as he notices the teenager flinch.

“If… if it’s too much we don’t have to go…”

Confused, T’viska pauses. Does he mean about going to Agade…?

“It’s fine, kid, we have enough anyway,” he exhales, “if Kiln wants to stay onboard, that’s his choice. I’ll just run a couple more afterwards. Just thought you’d like to get out a bit, get a feel for the less stressful parts of the job.” T’viska hesitates to smile, “it’s just a lookout, not at all intense.”

Once more the teenager peers back from beneath his jacket, his sight almost distant before he turns back to the hologram. “Okay…” Uncertainty lingers in the air, the tenno shivering out a sigh, “I’ll go.”

Before he departs to ready the liset, T’viska pulls him into another hug – only a single palm returns the gesture back.


	2. Contract: Venusian Facility Transport Audit

Whipping wind goes ignored as they lie beneath the shroud of temporal obscura, a pitched shelter that blends them into the snowing backdrop, kept in place by six pins that line the hexagonal shield. A corpus contraption made of durable synthetic fibers; it makes for a perfect small shelter – for as long as it’ll last them until the assignment concludes. Through the scope of his rubico T’viska counts out the caravan numerals that are etched into the inner shell of the coil drive and loaders, sending them back to Suuir for their contractor. Thirteen, he counts of the loaders, watching as crewmen and wardens unload the complex marked caches – a mash of corpus and grineer notated along the upper rims.

Off to his side about a meter apart Warren peers through the front mesh, slightly curled beneath his heavier coat as his fully gloved hand holds open the observation flap – the one direct source of light save for what makes it through the steep of the snowbanks that surround them as cold air whispers through the cracks. “What’re you looking for,” he asks, glancing towards the datapad that sits just off from between them, tuned to the Cephalon’s mission status report.

“Anything out of the ordinary,” the loki sighs, pulling his glowing slit face away from the sight of his sniper rifle, taking a pause before he gestures it over towards Warren. “Want to take a look?” he asks, “they’re just unloading some freight, third loader on the left.”

Cautiously Warren takes it, shouldering the worn butt of the rifle up against his shoulder as he takes the weight into the gentle glow of his palms. Gloves disperse the cold chill as the front of the secondhand rifle clicks against the stone it had once been perched against just outside the obscura, carefully wrestled into place off at the tenno’s side of the hideaway. And he stares down it – and pulls back for a moment with squeezed eyes; too bright. T’viska snorts, and Warren glances over the rubico to where the click of golden claws scale the zoom back to zero – just above the grip.

“Try now,” the loki smiles in the dim light, taking his turn to recall through his optical systems. “Hash A B M A 11101 V, looks like a upside-triangle, M, backwards e, upside-triangle, one, one, one, zero, one, z. Third large vehicle on the left. Has some curious cargo coming out of it for them to need armed guards and prison wardens.”

Through the rubico’s scope Warren watches as a worker snaps the latches of a rolling jack into the sides of a heavy crate; as the holograph around it blooms with warning labels as it begins to rise from the floor. It makes it down the ramp smoothly, the exhaust of the jack’s hover tech billowing into the snow as it crosses through the well-made path made of well salted ice – accompanied by crewmen wielding heavy deras. “Any idea what’s in it…?” he keeps his voice low, setting the zoom to follow the large crate into the facility – a heavy door slams between the elements and the smooth interior.

“I’ve got an idea… a bad one,” the loki sighs, picking up the datapad and passing it to Warren. “Contractor wants to be sure all crates make it inside… they don’t very much trust their ‘assets’ are going to where they need to go.”

Passing the rubico back to his father, Warren takes the datapad.

His mouth twists into a frown – a mix of materials, but most of all lists warframe cadavers and parts.

“Is… this common,” Warren’s voice remains low, the datapad tapping against the snow in which his arms sit half buried. Unaffected by the chill.

“Just… among the corpus,” T’viska adjusts the rubico as he resets the sight’s calibrations, reassessing the personnel that stand around the open loader. “Mostly… body parts, rarely ever see a conscious one traded unless it’s out around Jupiter.”

“What’s… around Jupiter.”

“Corpus elites heavy with credits,” the warframe adjusts, peering over to the datapad for a moment for a simple logic transfer, “they have a lot of high security research posts there among the storm, harder to reach compared to Venus or Pluto. Harder for ones to run away if all that surrounds them is gas…”

There’s a dip in the teenager’s features, mouth screwed into a frown as he sulks himself against the snow, a gloved palm holding the datapad between him and the observation flap. His thumb scrolls against the false surface, exhaling into the snow. “So… this is where all the remains end up,” he ponders, “do you… know what they do with them…?”

“I try not to think about it,” the loki almost snaps.

Silence stains the air and saturates as T’viska counts in his optical systems.

There’s a pause, and he sighs, “sorry. I’ve… just seen too much at this point…”

Glancing between T’viska and the datapad, Warren dismissing the mission manifest for now – a tab tucked away to refer to later. Should he ask…? His brows press; thoughts congealing with his desire to do something, to help someone. Yet, he does nothing as he looks back through the observational flap, watching as over a kilometer away the loaders empty of their concealed cargo – mind bending to the vision of bodies crammed inside them… of body parts used for whatever experiments were going on inside. He wants do something – 

Claws resting on his shoulder stop him in his tracks, his head pressed up against the roof of the temporal obscura.

He settles back down.

“I would do something about it if I could, kid,” T’viska sighs, tallying the crates at a total of 53. Labels pulled around them lie as the only marker for what lies inside – his sight snapping each through the rubico scope. To compare against the contractor’s manifest. “We can’t save everyone, Jacob… void knows I’ve tried.” Bodies lied desolate after a grineer assault; camps ravaged for resources and the settlers left for dead… T’viska suppresses it to the back of his mind. Two loaders left, and another hour or so left of solar sunlight.

Warren lies himself back in the snow, the hood of his jacket obscuring his face as it presses against his forearms.

T’viska pauses, pulling himself away from the scope as a part of him daunts in curiosity, the other part of him scared. He gives the sniper rifle space, a brief of hesitation, and he offers it over to the teenager once more. “Would you…?”

Another pause…

Wordlessly the tenno’s dark gloves take the rubico back to his side of the tenting obscura, aiming it down towards where the corpus wait for the loaders ramp to drop. Scaling the zoom with his thumb the tenno lets the crosshair drift between the distant banter, over the squared off helmets that house their oxygen and communicative devices, down to the pack that lies at the back of their environmental suits. Browsing, waiting, he trails a tube that leads out of one; a weak point.

The rubico quietly clicks – empty.

Carefully T’viska eases it out of Warren’s grip, his breathing brevis a sigh as he moves it back to his side – his concerns confirmed. Willing to shoot at the first chance – he can read as the irritation seeps through the unconscious somatic link; they’ll need to fire a few shoots before they can leave for the liset. But it’ll have to wait – his horn rests against the slender shape of the rubico, watching as the final ramp drops and the inner armor shielding begins to hiss. He can see as the wardens tense up, their supras raised towards the interior of the loader – one thing on the manifest stands out as T’viska browses through his recall function, the asset marked with an embolden warning label. A live asset.

Even from a distance T’viska can feel the weak surge of antimatter energy pull through his sympathetic systems, the gentle bloom that shines from the innards of the loader before it eventually fizzles out – a specialty moa stands before the ramp and its traction beam engages with the shackles. From the inner isolation chamber it pulls out the thrashing warframe as feet kick down against the metal, wrestling back against the restraints as one limb remains in ruin – a bolt dug through the nova’s shoulder.

The loki is thankful to be at a distance – he juggles the rubico as he turns his attention to the remaining cargo as he marks the ‘live asset’ off the contract manifest. He wouldn’t be able to handle the screeching….

He can sense the movement at his side, claws quickly reaching around a jacket forearm as the front of the obscura is pushed open by a gloved palm. “Stand down,” his voice is low as he glances up towards Warren, gently pulling him back from the temptation to run out into the thick of it.

“But…” Warren’s teeth grit, “look at them! We can’t just –”

A sullen frown looks back at the teenager, “I know… but please, stand down.”

Warren cuts his sight back to where the nova is pulled into facility…

And lies back in the snow, forehead pressing against his crossed arms. Fists aglow.

Claws rub against his back as T’viska looks back through the sight. “I don’t like it either… but we can’t help everyone, Warren.”

“It…” the teen pauses, teeth gritting, “I hate it…” he hates feeling useless.

‘You are useless,’ the echo snips, ‘hate seeing people hurt, but you can’t do anything about it, can you?’

Warren bites his lip, burying his head inside the hood of his jacket as his hatred simmers.

Breath in, breath out; his gloved thumb slides over the zoom of the scope, adjusting it until he can see the slight sigh of a mytocardia sac. Hands aglow in frustration, he steadies his aim with another inhale, pauses, and exhales.

The snap-fire of the rubico rings against his skull as he fires into the lilac glow 200 meters away, ringing again as he fires twice more as he lies among the snow. Against his front he can feel the Venusian chill creeping up into his skin, where his thick jacket doesn’t protect as he adjusts his aim, shrugging off the sour damage that still sounds through his head – much better than the crawl of invasive thoughts as he fires trice more to empty the clip into a smaller target, to the smaller spore sacs that explodes in each report.

There’s a pause, time for the ringing to eventually cease as snow blows through into his jacket.

And he unloads the empty mag.

To the side T’viska patiently waits, his palm resting upon the rubico’s ammo packet as he watches Warren pull himself up from the snow. Uncertain if the vent of frustration was enough. “Need another one…?” his tone briefs, watching as the teenager gives him a certain glance, and a breathed sigh.

No; he figures.

Palming his hand against where the euphona rests, T’viska doesn’t attempt to retrieve the rubico from Warren as he approaches, letting the teenager sling it over his shoulder even though it stands nearly as tall as him. “Feeling a little better…?” he tries again.

Nothing. Warren pulls the datapad from his jacket, reorienting himself to the liset’s position.

And begins to walk.

The warframe’s shoulders slouch as he watches for a moment as the tenno turns his back to him, stepping up the short embankment before he straddles over the top of a corpus railing.

It doesn’t take much for him to catch up. “Is…what’s the matter, kid?” He questions lightly, letting his palm trail from the euphona as their pace matches along the side of the well-pathed road. Concern pulls in his thoughts as the teenager remains quiet, pulling his hood further over his head as the rubico rattles against his back. He shouldn’t pry… but it only fuels the concern as emotion ebbs from one side of the sympathetic link to the other – Warren’s hurting, and he doesn’t know what to do.

And the silence just seems to make it worse. Warren’s grip on the rubico’s strap tightens as the void echo continues to taunt between the sudden gusts of chilling wind. Head still barely ringing, his front chilled by snow, the remnant of obscured tears still trace against his cheeks as the jacket’s hood lies as the only barrier between an outright breakdown. He can endure the words, sure, as the vile venom of his own voice repeats and twists his father’s words. Wrapping into the twist of snarls hidden by concern – just like before, just to get his defenses down. He tears himself forward a few steps, but the loki keeps the pace, he’s always kept the pace.

A part of him just screams to run… and he does!

That is until his legs fail beneath him, crashing into a snowdrift as the rubico slams against his back and skull. Even as the pain radiates for a moment as he pulls himself out – he can’t deny the worried hand that lies at his back and gestures beneath the rubico strap to pull it away from his head. It’s as his palms crumple into the snow he can feel his restraint snap, gloves balling into the snow. ‘Stop it,’ he stares into the snow, ‘stop crying.’

It’s not the echo’s voice. It’s his own.

‘Stop fucking crying.’

“Jacob, you alright?”

Warren keeps his sight trained on the snow as the tears keep running, motionless after he falls back to sit on his shins, pulling the hood over his head tighter. ‘Just stop it,’ he bites back, fists shaking against the snow as they threaten to lash.

“Jacob.” The concern is reviled – Warren smacks against the loki’s knee.

“I’m fine,” he nearly hisses between his teeth. ‘Just leave me alone.’

T’viska knows better, and he moves to kneel in front of Warren. A hand on shoulder, “Warre-”

It’s backhanded.

Silence simmers.

Held pause, T’viska searches for something to say.

Warren, picking himself up limb by limb, starts to walk away.

“Warren,” T’viska stands, watching he teenager.

“What?!” He whips around, the rubico slapping against his back as he spins. “What is it, dad?!” His teeth grit; embitter by the cold and the fissure in his emotional restraint, his shoulders tremble. “What do you want to say, that everything’s going to be fine?” His voice cracks, tears running rampant, “that I should just – fucking ignore that the same shits still happening, the exact same goddamn shit we’ve gone through is still happening and we’re to stand on the damn sidelines?” Warren snaps, fumes, wrestles with the rubico as he pulls it from his back and throws it into the snow between them. “That nova back there – they needed help and you told me to STOP. What’s going to happen to them now, huh? That it should just be fucking, brushed off, we can’t help them.” His body trembles, nerves erratic in the stress as the somatics in his eyes glow – a brief glance of transference he snaps off almost instantly.

“No, that’s –” T’viska tries to step forward – his muscles nearly firm.

“I’m fucking,” he sobs, “tired of just fucking watching people die because of me! Because I can do jack shit about it and just watch from the sidelines as people get hurt and see people die, die, die,” his breathing shudders, eyes clenching. “I’m… I’m so fucking useless, a burden, a complete and total fuckup!”

“Warren that’s not,” T’viska’s voice pauses – not his own doing as all he can do is watch, watch as a lone transport slows to a halt down the hill – the engines muffled as the teenager shouts.

Glove wiping against a sob, “‘not’ like what, dad? That just, just letting this shit happen for some money is okay?! That just as long as there’s some payment, you can just let this shit slide, as if it’s the only thing you can do.” Concentration slacked, “that there’s nothing you can do about it, so just have to, deal with it?” and it affirms again, “just watch as others suffer for some fucking CREDITS?!” Tears wreck through him, breathing in a shudder once more. “It’s no better than the fucking Orokin, and what did they have us do? Kill people that didn’t deserve it? And for what, for what, T’viska.” His voice is almost in a snarl, as though the name was poison, his voice hiccups. “And I can do nothing… I’m just a burden, am I?”

‘Warren, please turn around,’ T’viska pleads through the somatic connection as a corpus guard wades through the snow.

But Warren isn’t listening – his signal rings too strong as he begins to crumple again. Brushing, pawing, he scratches the tears from his face, struggles to brush them from the snarl on his left side and wrestles the hood from his face as the fibers sat at the brim frustrate him. Sobbing, crying, hands pull through his hair, “I’m just a waste…” his shoulders hunch firm.

“Jop ya!”

The bite of a serro digs against Warren’s spine through his jacket – for but a moment as he finds himself crashed instead on the other side of where the rubico has been thrown. His mind frays with void energy as it steams through his mouth and eyes, fissuring through his nerves as his hearing resigns muffled, his head swarmed in the void tonic and spinning, mind clouded as his palms press against the sides of his face, gloves pressing into his hair as the slight pain in the back of his neck sits little more than a mild irritation – a minor itch at his nape as he struggles to force his head to look up.

The euphona reports once, then twice more.

A body falling into the snow.

The black-bloodied serro falls into the snow from the toss of a golden claw grip as T’viska stumbles onto one knee. A hand struggles to slide his side-arm back into its holster as his body hitches and falls further onto his other knee – hand reaching back to the gashes that have fallen across his spine. They’re dug deep, wound dug deep enough for Warren to make out the exposed transference bolt between the gushes of blood as his shoulders stumble – muscles torn. It’s cracked – vertebrae visible beneath the glint.


	3. The incident

Claws stumble to catch the steering column as the liset drops into its cradle, gripping with fading strength as the loki tries to pull himself up from the pilot seat. Safe at home; incoherent nerves make it difficult to click the ramp to unlock as he leans against the console, a hand reaching back over the wounds that score into his back and neck. To his right he looks to Warren; arms coiling his legs up into a ball, fallen silent after the exhaustive ride… T’viska hopes he’s just fallen asleep. A wrist falls from the counter by the slicken blood that has clung to his arm wraps.

T’viska barely catches himself with a snarl and a hiss – ‘Suuir drop the fucking ramp.’

‘It is, T’ the cephalon’s tone remains flat. There’s a huff from the warframe in return.

Struggling to re-right himself, T’viska leans his side against the backing of the pilot seat as blood continues to seep down his back, a hand continuing to reach around over his neck, fumbling to hold the gashed flesh in place. He shivers – he’s experienced worse.

Taking a moment to pause, he shuffles himself over to where Warren sits resigned. A palm stabilizing him against the seat, he pats the teenager’s back. “I’ll be fine, kid, don’t worry about it, alright?” He sympathizes, glancing to where the ramp eases more than halfway leveled – the waiting oberon stands beyond it. It drifts a small smile, and he works his way across the wall only to stumble at the crest of the ramp – and is sat down by Kiln’s guidance.

It leaves a bloody trail in his wake that returns to the console, back to where Warren had since abandoned his jacket as his boots fall back to the floor. The teenager shivers; his palms crawling up over his head and through his hair as he barely listens to the mild banter that sits a few meters behind him – ‘they don’t care about you,’ his mind seethes incoherent, self-deprecated as he tries his best to ignore it. Against the back of his undershirt he can still feel the damp palm print, straining to ignore the anxious dread that crawls through his throat – long ran hoarse from shouts.

Sight since mended by the crusting tears, they fall back to the bloodied gloves beneath his boots.

Covered in his father’s blood – he shivers again, not from the cold.

He did this.

He CAUSED this!

Exposed to the cool sigh of the orbiter’s hanger atmosphere, Warren’s unable to hide himself beyond the crest of his shoulders and arms as his nerves remain erratic – and so he tries to curl himself even tighter as his arms pull up around his head as elbows dig against his knees. Anguished, he tries to force his thoughts to lie elsewhere, to somewhere far from the terror that begins to seize inside his throat anew in the echo of words formerly screamed. ‘Don’t you regret saying anything?’ his echo resounds as he buries his head between his arms.

Warren struggles to brush them aside as his breathing once more shudders into the sense of exhausted sobs – lungs screaming in pain. ‘You should’ve just stayed quiet,’ the void hisses into his head; he can’t tell if they’re his own thoughts anymore. Where does the voice end, and his own begin? Breathing trembling, fingers dig through his hair, pulling against it as he strains to listen back to the trace of a conversation behind him. ‘You should’ve just died,’ the invasive screams and makes him flinch instead.

He should’ve… fingers crawl up against his neck – where only a trace of the serro had struck his skin.

Why?

His teeth grit; his eyes squeezing firmly shut.

Pushing himself back up against the copilot seat, his hands pull against the fabric of his pants as he tries to find some reason, some logic as to WHY he’s still alive, why the corpus blade hadn’t just ended his fucking misery like it should have. Why him – why switch their places like that? His mind shunts as he paws around for where he’s tucked the datapad – something to divert his attention, yeah, he fumes as words echo through his mind. And they only just mindlessly fiddle with the smooth surface as his eyes only fall to the external view that still sits alive before him – glancing out into the emptiness of space.

Serene… cold… comforting space; his breathing shudders again.

‘You might as well disappear, right?’

Warren can’t tell if it’s the echo or his own…

He’s too exhausted to care as his mind begins to sink in the undertow.

Why not just disappear into the distance? Run far away from here… he won’t be a burden anymore if he was to, not to Kiln, not to Suuir, not to T’viska. His fingers play against the datapad once more, a casual return as his eyes only flicker down once – features too drained to emote as they sit sullen and tired. Eyes crusted with tears, cheeks trailed, nose stuck with remnant snot, he begins to flick through the historic catalog he’s isolated onto the device. Away from Suuir’s prying sight.

His trembling thumb lands on the scrapping he has made of the void; and his memory resurges in pervasive thoughts, the echo seething in the back of his mind. ‘It’ll be quick.’

But his emotionless sight falls to the console before him. It’s tied to Suuir, the cephalon would stop him just like before. ‘The other one,’ his eco directs, ‘it’s been there.’

Kiln’s liset isn’t tied to Suuir.

‘Take the plunge,’ he can’t tell if its himself or the echo.

Even then; it could take him fully and completely into nothingness.

Even still; tears welt up once more at the edge of his sight, the balls of his palms brush them away.

Does he even have the strength anymore to keep fighting this pain… could it just be that easy?

“Hey kid.”

Warren freezes and then reactively snaps the datapad into its compact form as he hustles it quickly between his folding arms. Pressing himself back against the seat, he doesn’t as much turn his head as claws gently ease the copilot seat to turn, letting his curls obscure his face instead.

Gauze wrapped around his throat and upper chest, T’viska only just slightly leans against the seat backing as an arm lies over the top, looking down to where the teenager has since clammed up. “Don’t worry about it,” he partials, trying to not let concern take his voice, “I’ve had much worse,” he tries to smile. Careful, he leans over to separate the teenager’s back from the seat, pulling him up into a slight hug – Warren remains motionless.

‘He’s lying,’ the echo resumes. Warren crests his head loose even as the loki tries to affirm the hug.

“I’ll try and see if we can expedite that trip to Agade, alright?”

‘He’s just trying to make you feel better,’ the void emission hisses.

T’viska can feel him shaking… and once more pulls Warren up into a hug with a sigh before he finally releases the teenager to rest back against the seat. “When you feel like it, head back up into the residentials, okay?” He whispers, claws lingering on the back of the seat. “I’ll see how much longer it is until we reach Mars, try and get some rest outside of that chair, okay?” A faint, wounded smile.

Warren says nothing; he doesn’t deserve comforting; he shivers as he listens to the steps eventually fade.

Silence…

Aching silence surrounds him as he tries to bite back the tearing in his throat, the reinforced sobs as he’s left alone in the belly of the liset. Not even Kiln remains in earshot as the twist of the void winds around his thoughts, ensnaring every invasive snag as further, and further it pulls into inevitable dread.

Should he… would he…?

Slowly, carefully he brings the datapad back into form, sight browsing through the notes he has long made about the void. The surface lashings like the lick of flames, white hot and burning against the shell of the Zariman as it sunk deeper into the depths. Down, deeper it sank beneath the formidable storming energy, into the endless black so very much like the internals of a somatic cradle… calm and soothing… weightless… free of pain.

His breathing hitches. No. It was everything but as the echoes of trauma surges through his thoughts; each relived death one-to-one, the searing he felt as bodies were torn asunder and yanked free nerve ending by nerve ending before he was left to rot in an isolation cell until he was ‘better’.

And his teeth grit, sight browsing restlessly over the self-made documentation. Over and over his vision blurs over the text, repeating the numb and senseless draw towards the enigmatic void as invasive thoughts continue to wriggle in the back of his mind – until he finally wrestles it to set aside, to close the datapad as his head presses back against the chair with a heavy sigh. ‘Why are you hesitating?’ there’s that hiss again, ‘no one cares about you,’ whines, ‘just do it, get it over with.’

Swallowing the temptation to return to becoming a nervous wreck, he tucks the datapad into his pants pocket, hands pulling up through his hair as he stares up at the ceiling of the liset. His eyes squeeze close, thinking… waiting.

He sighs; and begins to pull himself up from the chair.

Piece by piece he eases himself up to his feet, first with his hands as they press against the armrests, pushing down against them as he forces his thoughts to resign only on that – to dispel the hindering thoughts that try and break through his consciousness. And his boots kick the bloody gloves off to the side as he finally finds himself upright, a hand against the liset’s console as his gaze turns towards the vision of space before the hologram dissipates – back to the solid wall form it truly is. A false vision to the outside – he sighs before kneeling to pick up his bloodied jacket and gloves.

He holds them out at arms-length for a moment, he balls them up outside-in, wiping his bloodied hands against his pants as he walks himself down the ramp of T’viska’s liset. Up past the resting oberon he continues into the residential section of the orbiter, hoping to dispose of the dirty clothing in the shower, wash up, rest away the dredging thoughts that continue to maul and churn in the back of his mind. Warren makes it up to the final ramp that leads into where the foundry and workstation sit – where T’viska leans up against the later before he makes his way up.

Stepping over, T’viska takes the bloodied clothing. “I’m sure Suuir can clean these up,” he tempts to smile, and it takes a moment for Warren to let go. It leaves his hands empty, standing alone in the center of the room as the loki deposits the clothing into the foundry’s intake port – to be cleaned by the cephalon.

Tears bead at his eyes; the teenager stands tense.

He wanted to clean those…

And there’s a noticeable hesitation in the loki’s stride before he returns to Warren, gently pulling him into a side-hug, an attempt to comfort. “It’s okay,” he tries to calm, “I’m sure it won’t take long to get them back.” And he steps away, almost back to the workstation where the euphona lays.

But he wanted to do it himself…

Warren tries to settle the gnashing pain in the back of his throat.

T’viska pauses, turning to Warren. “Hey, do you want to learn how to tend to this?” He holds up the euphona, the barrel already pulled from the assembly. “Still needs cleaned out,” he briefs, a small laugh, “it’s been a while, so it’s a little crusted up.”

‘No,’ grips in the back of the teenager’s throat, nerves aching and overwhelming as he… shuffles over to where the loki stands, off to the side of the workstation as he watches the glint of claws pull apart the heavy caliber pistol. There lies the hesitation in his breath as he tries to hold himself together, focusing his thoughts to the small parts. The springs and the energy storage unit that ebbs through the capacitor just beneath the sturdy shell.

It’s just enough to fend off the fissure that’s already cracking through his numbed psyche, watching and observing as the loki speaks through the cleaning process; about where the point-blank blood splashes into the edges of the assembly. How each function within the pistol works in conjunction with one another – how the buckshot flares from the back of the barrel to scatter the energy shots. Even drawing a small smile from Warren when T’viska offers to him to reassemble it, to put what he’s learned to use.

But it begins to quickly fade as the smallest frustrations begin to compound, parts that looked like they have fit don’t – it draws the fissure to crack, even more-so as the loki leans over his shoulder, watching him ever so patiently.

‘You’re fucking it up,’ the echo compounds. Warren flinches, hands trembling.

“Hey, you just have it the wrong-way around,” the loki guides Warren’s hands to rotate the loader against the capacitor junction. “There’s a smooth groove on one side, that’s where the top is at,” He briefs, “most of the primed weapons have some little divot in them, takes some getting used to locating them.”

Warren wishes he’s known before – why hadn’t he noticed?

At the connection between the hammer’s part he comes into another snag, gently fussing with it, frustration-made tears beading at the edge of his sight. Gentle pushes turn to firmer force, stopped only by the grip of gentle claws. “Easy,” T’viska snorts, “it needs a gentle touch to get right,” and he guides the tenno’s hands to release the pieces – hands held open as he guides it around until it finally hitches in – laying the final portions into the open hands. “See? Just takes a little coaxing,” the warframe smiles; or tries to, all too aware of the shaking at his side.

He tries not to mention the tears, stood quiet as a few drop down the teen’s exhausted face.

Warren takes notice of them, mouth turned to grit.

He lays the euphona portions onto the workbench, stepping himself away, turning over towards the ramp down into the hangers and vanishes from sight.

‘T’viska, are you worried?’ Suuir questions through the loki’s vision as he turns back to the workstation, completing the reassembly on his own.

‘Yes, I am… but he needs his space. I don’t want to overwhelm the poor kid, he just needs some time to think,’ his breathing sighs, nimbly piecing the euphona back together, checking it against the light.

‘T’viska,’ Suuir’s cuts across the warframe’s vision, ‘he’s boarded the other liset, Kiln’s letting him.’

A trickle of anxiety crawls through the loki, ‘I’m sure its fine… are they both heading out?’

‘No, he’s onboard alone. And I can’t prevent it from launching.’

The euphona slams onto the workstation. ‘You have no control over it?” His pace quickens, making his way down into the innards of the orbiter and towards the hanger. ‘What’s the oberon doing,’ he nearly snarls, hearing the distant roar of the other liset’s engines as it tears out of the hanger – the air stunning silent as he stands in the doorway where Kiln had station his craft. “Kiln! What happened,” he calls over, stood in the doorway as the towering oberon stands in the middle of the platform – watching as the vessel vanishes from view.

“I froze…” the other warframe’s tone is low… empty.

“Shit,” the loki flinches, and turns heel to his liset.

By the time he drops himself into the pilot seat it’s already set alive by the cephalon’s discretion, his golden claws frantically trying to dial itself into the other liset’s callsign – given to him by Suuir to punch in manually as fear begins to grip – he couldn’t be. “Warren!” He calls through the direct commlink, watching before him as the orbiter’s radar tries to home in on the other ship’s signal as it distorts ever further. Each echoing, empty ping reverbs through his aching chest, watching as the audio visualizer fluctuates. “Please turn around,” the slits in his face scrunch, teeth gnashing.

Warren kicks against the accelerator as the systems tune towards the coordinates of the void. His knuckles bare white as they grind and knead against the steering column, fingernails digging against the grip as tears choke down over his chin, as he stares down into the forsaking abyss before him, the darkness that envelopes around him as he sails into space. Although his focus is intent, a hand scratches against his cheek, wiping the tears down to where his hands clench, gripping for a moment. Eyes lied shut, his breathing shudders, choking back as his tear stained hand reaches over the transceiver. “I’m sorry, dad,” he chokes, click the commlink dark.

Finally leaving him fully, inevitably, alone.

No echo sighs as his palms grind against the steering column’s grip, sucking back his tears and snot in the falsetting of his emotions as they tumble into a wave. “It’s better this way…” he relieves a sigh as his breathing continues to shake, letting his hand hover over the jump initiation… and slams it, jolting him straight into the blinding glare of the void. Its stark tone stuns him numb as the brilliant bloom tones of blue and whites dance through the innards of the liset, breathing in the brilliant visage for a moment as his tears run themselves dry – as he zones out completely.

Breathing in the stark energy that begins to seep around him, he reaches up to the control console for the manual engine input. Tick for tick, he begins to run the general flight control diagnostics, forgoing the internal safety protocol as the hum of the void surrounds him, reverbing through his head, drawing him calm as he disengages the thruster limiters – organized, he feels almost safe as his breathing begins to slow, easing his movements as the energy wisps around him. Seeping from the edges of his eyes, from the gaps between the bared teeth; it ebbs beneath his palms as he grips the control column.

It gives in beneath his hands as the joints remain limbered, as the engines breathe beneath him as he takes a deep and steady breath – his foot ready over the accelerator.

He takes a moment as his hands steady out of their initial trembling, swallowing down the hesitation that bites within his throat as his eyes falter closed. Breathing in… he releases a sigh; sight returning to the endless embrace of the void as he gazes out to the enrapturing strands of energy, the figures that echo a similar shape to the arboriforms.

Fingers gripping against the control column; he inhales. The daunt of apologies crawls through his mind, relieving them as he unavoidably sighs, “I’m sorry Knev… I’m sorry Kiln,” his teeth grit, “I’m so sorry… for everyone I’ve led to their deaths… the people I’ve killed, those left in my wake…” The pain of sensory torn guts, the resurgence of limbs exploding from the joints in laser fire, the bloom of explosions that rip through his body until he’s pulled free from the drenching of a somatic cradle. There’s an attempt to begin again – his teeth gnash.

“I’m sorry dad…” and he slams the accelerator, “I’m sorry for not being strong enough…” and he chases towards the winding energy strand.

His eyes squeeze tight as the liset rams against the side of the dense energy strand, scraping against it before it begins to adhere to the void’s entwining draw. Energy enraptures around him and the liset, tearing against the armored shell as his intent remains firm – pressing his boot down harder as his shoulders tense, pushing himself and the column further forth even as the ship begins to lurch, shift, stumble back and forth. Warren fights against the liset each time it nearly works itself free from the energy whorls – it stumbles, there’s a shudder; and the ship lurches forth as a thruster implodes overwhelmed by the void.

Warren’s skull cracks up against the interior ‘windshield’, his stomach pulled up against the control column as his breath is forced out – choked by the full forth of the void energy as it begins to tear the liset’s tender inner workings apart. Laid bare by the thruster explosion the thrashing of the void makes quick work of the outer shell, tearing the engines apart, ripping the directional shells free as it loses its gravitational field. Tumbling, throwing Warren around he crashes against the walls and ceiling, crumpled into a gasping curl, head snapping over to where a fissure of white tears from the hind of the cabin – tossing him free adrift into the void –

The atmosphere sears his skin as he’s thrown amongst the residual of the thruster explosion, left amongst the debris field and helpless as he watches as the liset is continued to be torn apart further down the coil of void energy – until his eyes begin to burn, hand clasping against it as the lashes of void energy envelops him. It burns as it surrounds him, prying deep through his skin as the volatile reaction attacks his body, a contaminate that much be purged as the corruption creeps along his skin, digging deep down into his muscles and bones as his screams are made unheard – throat burning, hands clasping against his throat as he struggles for air as his externals begin to sear towards black, just as the pain in his chest once more resurges, tearing through his lungs and organs in a sudden surge. Burning, burning, BURNING, he strains to find relief from the overwhelming lashes of bright energy, clutching against his chest, fingers digging into the fabric as muscles churn in his gut, contents expelled and vaporized in the same moment as it becomes nothing but mere smoke – but Warren can’t see it as his eyes are blazing, BURNING in his skull as even holding them shut doesn’t belay the agony that digs through his brain, through his back as his skin begins to rip.

Even when he can manage to forth them open – he can see nothing, sinking into darkness as his nerve endings finally burn, sinking him into the darkness of false sensory deprivation; his hands lash out as he can feel his body pulling back, reaching towards the faint of light that shimmers so far away as his muscles are torn into white, replaced by the tearing of arboriform that frees itself from his back, his legs, his inner organs as for a moment his mind draws blank – sterile of thought as the pain continues to surge, ripping through whatever senses he has left, sound merely more than a figment of his imagination.

Left adrift in the void… he’ll soon be burned away as even the arboriforms that have grown from his body begin to fade into smoke. Soon enough, everything will be over, the senses of his mouth try to part, giving into the weightlessness of the under-end of the void, where it sits dense and suffocating – compressing his chest with every breath.

“Warren!” he hears bubbling up through the distant muffle of sound, screamed with the drawl of pain.

His mind resigns numbed, burned by the void as what is left of his eyes slowly drift open even as they remain sightless. It leaves his ailed thoughts to ponder, movement hindered by the extinguished nerve endings as all he can do is a shuffle – who…?

“Ja-jacob…C–!” It’s the loki crying out for him… a gasp cuts through the wounded stumbling breath, gnarled by the aching drip of blood as breathing chokes. Gasping, gagging, his breathing tries to work through a gargle, spitting out fierce.

The teenager’s eyes continue to burn – straining to see anything past the fading fog that crawls at the edges of his heavy vision as he continues to sink into the entrenching depth of senseless nerves. Around him the arboriform growths continue to fizzle out of existence – dissipating into steam as he tries to find his grounding, as he tries to focus himself as the screaming never stops. Louder, and louder it continues to scream, drawn hoarse in pain, ripping and gagging and coughing up – he’s in pain.

There’s a lull in his consciousness as his mind tries to find focus, fading to inevitably close in on the screaming as it tears through into the back of his mind, resounding until his hands snap up against the sides of his head, fingers digging against his skull as his nerves are still numb – the grip empty as he tries to pull himself from the drift towards unconsciousness.

T'viska’s hurting; it’s all he is able to figure as he strains to bring himself back from the brink, nerves tearing against nerves, struggling to bring himself forth from the draw of darkness – fully forgetting the burning that has since seared his skin, the laps from the void that has churned his legs to stumble as they finally find the floor and falls.

Hands catch him for a moment before his face makes impact with the floor, head surging with newfound pain as the crack marks with a bruise on his temple – his legs still incoherent beneath him as the they stumble in their numbing state. Eyes failing to open, they burn as the light of the orbiter returns to his sight, squinting as one remains voided, the other still a glint of blue as he struggles to push himself up from the floor, to follow the gargle and screams – he needs to see him, what happened?!

His mind resigns null – stunted from the events as void energy gags within the remnants of his throat, breathed out through the ventilation that marks at the side of his throat as steam seeps behind a newfound bonespur marking where he had once an ear. Digitigrade legs continue to fumble beneath him as he tries to follow the snarls, the voices that are just too far away for him to make out the noises that are produced – forcing himself up to his feel, he tries to crawl along the walls, back towards where T’viska had landed his liset earlier…

There’s blood – 

There’s just so much blood as he falters down to his knees, unable to make sense as his sight continues to remain unfocused as he moves closer to the faint of numbed curiosity. Where the lull in his thoughts eventually snap back into focus as his hands are slicken dark with blood – and golden claws find his wrist, giving merely a weak tug that only pervades the sightless curiosity – the warframe still a mere blur in the corrupted psyche until it finally finds focus.

Not made by sight, as the loki draws in a gasp. “D-don’t chasethe pain… it’s ok-ay, you’ve been… fighting against – thestream,” T’viska strains to keep his words above a whisper, “and you’ve – done enough.” The loki’s breathing shudders as his lungs lie exposed, venting through the deep claw marks dug into the sides of his ribcage – torn and frayed as his weak arms try and find focus. Overtly he struggles to even ease the void dazed teenager closer to where he’s laid out on the floor beneath the ramp the liset scored with beads of blood.

Blood lies around them – not torn by the same rips that have blitzed through the teenager, but made by the loki’s own claws as he struggles to find his breathing again, curling against the floor as he can only find grip in the tenno’s hand – “h-hush now,” his voice creaks “it’s okay,” he stumbles to speak, voice hoarse, “when all you want to do is scream… I’m here when you can’t speak…” a hand clutches around his gut, trying to pull his innards back together.

And Warren’s psyche finally clicks back into place, eyes phasing out of the stunned void-bound gaze. His hands shake, body trembling as T’viska strains to breathe through what remains of his lungs, still trying to continue the dreaded lullaby as he resigns in a senseless curl – a hand losing grip of a yet smaller clawed hand – boneclaws keep hold. “H-hold on, Kiln! KILN!” he screams back into the junction between the hangers and the upper portion of the ship. “Kiln!” again he shouts, sight soured by tears as he turns back, clasping his father’s… his adoptive father’s hands into his own.

Just like the Zariman, Warren shivers.

“Please, please be okay,” his voice trembles into weeps, hands working around to try and prop the loki up to an assisted sit.

T’viska gags on his own blood, it coughs to the floor as he tries to inhale through mouth and vent lungs. “Rest now… it’s okay,” he tries to smile, weak hand reaching around to ruffle through Warren’s hair, “we’ve… made it through another day,” his body lurches, barely able to hold himself if it was not for the hand against his back – but he can feel his strength still fading, his energy reserves well extinguished, “with strength… they’d never take away,” he still tries to sing the hampered lullaby.

“Dad, please,” tears crawl down to Warren’s throat, his hands trying their best to keep the loki from drowning in his own blood, “dontdontdontdontdont, no you can’t do this,” his voice cracks, looking back. “KILN! KI-ILN! Please!”

“Ssshhh,” the loki tries to hush, his arms too weak to make a reassuring pat, “you… just made a mistake. It’s alright, everyone does it,” his voice remains low, exhausted as he tries to continue to speak. “I’m just glad you’re alright, kid,” he still tries to smile, even as blood still seeps from his mouth. He tries to turn himself back, struggling to keep upright to give Warren a hug – what may be his last time.

“Dad I’m so sorry,” his breathing hitches, a hiccup creeping up his throat – he might’ve killed his dad this time for sure, he chokes. “You – you’ll be fine! Kiln will, Kiln will get you better, I’m sure – KILN!” He screams again, only letting it fade as he hears the storming steps making their way towards the hangers.

“Be strong,” the warframe’s breathing hitches, swallowing back a gag of blood, “be strong, my cherished son,” he eventually sighs out, as the oberon makes it to his side, rolling out a widespan length of cloth before he’s quickly moved upon it, wrapped from legs to shoulders as Warren tries to hold onto his hand – scared to let go, “I will wait… and I’ll be here,” his hand eventually drifts as Kiln heaves the loki up from the floor, pulled away from the teenager as just as quickly Kiln makes his way towards the ramp, up and into the residential quarters of the orbiter as Warren strains to make it to his feet, falling down onto his senseless knees.

Once more… he’s alone as tears stain his sight.

It’s hours until Warren finally makes his way into the medbay.

Exhaustion still stains his sight as he makes his way through the door, pulling a crate up behind him before he lands it besides where the oberon stands. Almost quickly, almost quietly, he sits himself down in front of the intensive care cot, staring into it where the loki lays out and wired into the orbiter’s systems. “How’s he doing…?”

Through his optical systems Kiln glances through the loki’s diagnostics; where his lung capacity remains critically damaged, his innate regeneration nonfunctional, his cognitive functions offline… the oberon sighs. “He’s… doing fine; but will likely be out for a couple days at the least due to the damage he’s sustained. T’viska needs a direct energy supply line to heal up to the point he won’t need the life support systems anymore.”

Warren looks over to where T’viska head lays off to the side – turned away to allow his head enough room within the cot. “How long might that be?” He turns his thoughts to the somatic tether, searching for a signal from the loki’s transference bolt… and finds none.

“A few weeks, at most, but until then… we’ll have to make do with the money we have.” He sighs.

Glancing over as the oberon stands, Warren watches as he departs back into the main corridor of the ship – likely to try and figure something out as the loki remains unconscious, tubes wired into his throat and wrist. Through the pulsations he feels beneath his feet, Warren senses the winding weaves beneath the panels of the wall, the tangles of the arboriform growth that makes the nerves of the orbiter.

His hands wring, “guess I’ll have to pick up the slack… huh dad?” He tries to smile, looking down to where the once partially corrupted arm has been made darkened and bore with claws, a sharpness that merely dances over his skin as the void imbue of his fists sigh against his knees.

**Author's Note:**

> I thank you for taking the time to read through this to completion, the entire series as a total has taken a lot out of me, as well as a means to come to terms with my own personal circumstances. Where the past circumstances only give foundation to the past, and do not pave the way for the future. Where-in healing takes time and energy, and at times they may be misconstruded and mal-attributed and require time to unlearn what had may been necessary for survival in the past. Where-in suppression of expression isn't needed, and understanding what results they bring outside of a neglectful environment.
> 
> This is not the last entry in regards of rebuilding! As Warren takes up the mercenary roll in T'viska's steed as the loki lies unconscious on life support.
> 
> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-


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